


The Root

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Figging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor can smell ginger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Root

The Doctor can smell ginger.

Not a ginger person, but the root. He squirms instinctively, knowing what’s about to happen, trying to think of a way out, trying to slip his hands out of the ropes and failing. Bloody hell. What’s he gotten himself into?

The Master is humming a jaunty tune. There’s a slick, slightly metallic sound, the wet slap of a peeled bit of root hitting the sink. The scent of ginger intensifies. “Remember this, Doctor?” the Master asks, and peels away another bit of root. The Doctor can’t see through the blindfold, but he can hear each little sliver of skin as the Master pares it away to expose the flesh beneath. The thought makes the Doctor shiver out of mixed apprehension and arousal. “Not exactly the same as what we used to use at the Academy, but I can’t find the original plant now that you’ve destroyed our planet. It will do, anyway.” He chuckles. “Aromatic, isn’t it?”

The Doctor would love to reply, but it’s difficult to say anything coherent with a ring gag in your mouth. It’s a bit like a gun barrel—you speak only in vowels.

The Master takes far less time to peel and shape the root than the Doctor would have liked. The Doctor swallows nervously, his mouth suddenly very dry, and works his hand back through the loop of rope. The Master would be extremely displeased if he knew the Doctor was trying to slip out of his restraints, and he’s going to have a difficult enough time sitting down as it is.

He wishes for kneepads. The floor of the Valiant’s kitchen isn’t nearly as painful as the grating on the TARDIS, but it’s still bloody uncomfortable to be on the tile for so long. It gets even more uncomfortable when the Master shoves him onto his side, giving him a brisk smack on his already sore arse, a faint pink handprint screening itself over the criss-crossed shapes left by the cane, then slipping a finger into the cleft, teasing. The Doctor enjoys it despite himself, the way he knows he’ll enjoy the ginger. He should escape. He should definitely escape. But maybe he’ll just entertain the Master for a while first.

The Master presses behind the Doctor’s balls, and he hisses, twitches, sparks of pleasure leaping up his spine and down his legs as the Master moves his fingers in a tight circle. Escaping is rapidly moving down his list of priorities.

He yelps with the cold as the tip of the ginger, carved into the shape of a plug by the Master’s skilled hands, presses insistently at his entrance. The Master isn’t using lube, as the root is smooth and slightly moist with its own oils, but it’s still far too solid to be comfortable for the Doctor. He whimpers and moans as it’s pushed into him, and by the time it finally settles into place, he’s writhing on the floor. The fun hasn’t even really started yet.

The Master hops up on the counter and waits, doing little flippy-swishy tricks with his cane, watching as the same compounds responsible for ginger’s spiciness and trademark aroma start to work their magic inside the Doctor’s arse. It starts slowly, just a few twitches and groans. Within a few minutes, however, it’s taken full effect, and the Doctor’s drowning in a delicious heat, the spice of the oils as they leak from the root and the ache of muscle being stretched by the plug. When he starts mewling plaintively and humping the air, the tip of his cock doodling streaks and ribbons of precome on the kitchen floor, the Master intervenes.

The long criss-crossed X shapes on the Doctor’s arse rapidly turn into asterisks, each blow causing the Doctor to clench reflexively. Each time, his muscles work more of the oil out of the ginger, intensifying the burn and simultaneously making clenching harder. They blend together, the sting of the cane and the heat spreading inside, both of them mingling and flowing into the tightening coil at the base of his balls. Every stroke makes the Doctor’s cock jump, makes the Master’s twitch.

"Do you remember the first time we did this," the Master says, stroking himself idly through his trousers, "I didn’t make the base wide enough, and it got lost inside you? You were so very upset. Took ages to convince you to try it again, but it was worth it, eh?" Crack. The Doctor’s moan is thready and long, trailing off at the end. He both loves and hates when the Master speaks of home.

The ginger is, at last, wearing itself out, along with the Doctor. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, chin smeared with saliva from his open mouth, breath coming in gasps from his dry throat. And, rather satisfactorily, the Master finds his arse sufficiently relaxed when he tests, teases him, fucking him gently with the plug as the reactions complete and the burn dies down, leaving the Doctor exhausted and open. The Master pulls the plug free, the Doctor whining with mixed relief and loss, and tosses it into the bin, setting the cane aside.

The Doctor only struggles a little when the Master rolls him onto his front. It’s so weak, with a slightly perfunctory quality, that the Master suspects it’s more a point of principle than anything. He hums happily as he pours lube into his fist and spreads it over his erection. The groan he emits as he pushes into the Doctor’s arse comes from somewhere deep, down near his groin, rising like the sea during a tidal wave. The Doctor makes a snuffly, needy noise of his own, lifting his arse minutely to meet the Master’s thrusts.

"Good boy," the Master murmurs, rolls his hips, reaching out to grip the Doctor’s hair and pulling with sticky fingers. His other hand is still strongly scented with the ginger root, and on impulse, the Master wraps his hand around the Doctor’s head and thrusts two fingers into his mouth, knowing he can’t bite them. The Doctor whines and licks at them, tasting spice and Time Lord, his body tensing, hard cock and heavy balls rutting on the floor. He comes before the Master. Ordinarily, the Master wouldn’t be pleased, but it has the effect of making him tighten minutely, then relax completely, going entirely limp beneath his Master. There’s a certain pleasure in that, as well, feeling his boneless body absorb each thrust. The Master releases the Doctor’s head, and he catches himself before it cracks against the tile, then lets it rest on the floor, now making minute little grunts and hums as the Master fucks him.

When the Master finally comes, it’s with his cock buried to the root and a long, greedy sound that tears out of his throat, somewhere between a moan and a growl. He lets himself slump over the Doctor’s prone form, using him as a pillow on the hard tile, panting into his ear and nipping at the skin over his shoulders. When the Doctor is his, every drop of come is a tribute, every moan an apology, every orgasm a surrender. Glorious.

The Master pulls out, wipes himself clean with a napkin, and tucks his cock away. The Doctor is gaping just slightly open, which is always a wonderful sight. He rolls his shoulders and draws a short but sharp pocketknife, opening the blade with the flick of a wrist. The Doctor tenses. He’s always worried when the Master takes it out, even though the Master has never (yet) actually cut him with it. Maybe because he’s seen what the Master likes to do to Jack.

He chuckles warmly and slashes the rope binding the Doctor’s wrists. He sits up immediately, stretching his sore arms and rubbing the ligature marks left by his bonds. The Master picks up his cane again and pushes the blindfold away from the Doctor’s eyes with the tip, pointing it down at the floor.

"Clean it up," the Master orders. The Doctor blinks and shakes his head, squinting in the sudden brightness. When he makes out the pool of his own come on the floor where the Master’s pointing, the Master gets a very dirty look indeed.

This would be an excellent time to escape.


End file.
